


A Game of Gods

by paperiuni



Category: Mason & Dixon - Thomas Pynchon
Genre: Friendship/Love, Gen, Other, Pastiche, Philosophy, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:57:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperiuni/pseuds/paperiuni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during one of the American winters. In snowy March, Mason and Dixon meet again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Game of Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Being an unworthy & unlawful Work of imitative literary Nature.
> 
> With Apologies to the esteem'd Thomas Pynchon, and to the Spirits and descendants of Charles Mason & Jeremiah Dixon, and to anyone better versed in 18th century Geordie English.

The Shadows slant before the blinking Moon as tatter'd clouds carry fits of frost across the Vault of the heavens. 'Tis far too cold for March, and Dixon's horse, flanks steaming, hoofs a-prance at the smallest Whisper in the Trees, bears no resemblance to the docile beast he set out with several days past.

The windows of the Inn wink to the left of the wild-cluster'd road like the eyes of a fresh-faced Maiden, peering at him from beneath the lacy Hem of her Shawl of late snow. His horse, grateful, is led away by a stable-hand, and Dixon, grateful, casts open the Door to the candle-lit Common-room. A look around the low and hazy space bears no fruit, so he crosses it to query after his co-adjutor.

He is point'd to the back porch, quickly.

And Dixon goes, back into the Snow and the gusty darkness.

Standing crouch'd over the Railing, in one of the partition'd Rectangles of dusty light from the Common-room, Mason seems a sombre Spirit of the unseasonal Chill. The Quarter-inch of Whiskey in the glass that he dangles with the tips of his fingers reflects the Illumination like a flaw'd pearl. The creak of Dixon's boots on the frosty planks does not raise his head. Mason broods, as 'tis his wont t'do.

"Evening, good sir" -- Dixon leans close in Anticipation of the next chapter in Mason's cyclical Epic of Woe. "Ah didn't interrupt, no?"

He is met with Silence, at first.

"I was listening," says Mason at last, in the hoarse Timbre of a man who has not truly spoken for a Time, "for the darkness. But the voices of the living are louder."

"Tha're standing on the porch of an Inn," Dixon remarks as he produces his pipe from his Pocket. "'Tis not a Cliff of St. Helena."

The flare of the Match-stick stirs back the shadows on Mason's brow, but for a moment, merely. Dixon lets himself breathe of the tangy pipe-smoke, and of the restless, rushing Air, and waits for Mason. Sometimes, 'tis the only Prompt he will heed.

This time, it is, even though Mason takes his time. "I have let my Mind dwell, frivolously, on the Frenchman who bet on the existence of God."

"Have you, now? I wouldn't have thought thee too deeply invest'd in the ventures of Gamblers, Charlie...?"

The inclination to approach hovers on Dixon's mind, like a bright Bird in a jar of Glass, piercingly visible, but, for the denial in the Arc of Mason's shoulders, beyond Touch or Realisation.

"Pascal's Gambit, Dixon" -- Mason swigs down the rest of his chilly Whiskey -- "in which the good Philosopher claims Faith in God to be preferable to Doubt. His being French aside, the fellow has a pious notion there."

"Ah know him, much as needs to be known." Dixon wonders as to this Frenchman, however, and to his application of rigid Reason to Faith that shapes the lives of men. The mystery, for the nonce, is why Mason has brought him up.

"Plays God dice, Mason, friend? Does a man choose his faith, ah...?"

"I do not know. But it puzzles me -- the suggestion, the sentiment, if you will. I've a fancy to dwell upon it."

Their Breath coalesces into ghosts in the air, shimmers, mingles, and is blown away. Dixon, all too well aware of what Mason's admission entails, of the eternal Conundrum of God, as harrowing to his co-adjutor as 'tis straightforward to himself, hides a glimmer of a smile into his Pipe-fog.

"Swift fancies -- and they grow keener in your Absence," confesses Mason then, to his empty Glass, chipp'd at its opal-tinged Rim.

"Ha," retorts Dixon, drawing in the sharp smoke. "Thah might be, seeing as here you argue with the Spirits again. Have no fear, Ah'm certain 't won't take huz many an hour to rouse a disagreement worthy of the Epics of yore.

"Tha're mad, Charlie, but we can't help thah, frightfully...?" Dixon shrugs, the Matter trivial. "'Tis the vastness of this country, th' emptiness of the sky. Easy to lose thyself."

"'Tis not a place tamed by anyone," muses Mason. The Wind tugs on the encircling pines, tossing their branches into shapes of jagged, groping Hands against the pool of Light from the inn.

Mason seems fragile, and cold, and at the moment so submerg'd in his Ruminations that he himself takes little note of either State. This will be a subdued Reunion, Dixon understands. Places and ways shall have t' be re-established, perhaps with great slowness and Subtlety. With Mason, all things take their time, but Dixon is cold, as well. The gleam of his Pipe is a poor imitation of the Hearth-fire inside.

Twisting a Frost-stiffen'd button of his Coat, Dixon gives Mason a nod, quick but cordial, season'd with a now open smile; lets Mason know that he has his ear.

"You're a fantasist, Dixon. The wildness matters not to you. You'd reach for the horizon, even as it fled beyond your grasp." Mason leans o'er the Railing again; his hands, fine-bon'd, pale as the Chill in the wind, curl 'bout the insubstantial Umbra of the night.

"Thah might be so," Dixon condones; tucks the coat around Mason's shoulders. "Keep thy winter. Keep thy night. But, keep warm, ah...?"

Mason, looking up, "Thus I am now you? I remember how you rode out in my Hat and Coat, to see the dead village. The killings.

"I envy the way it ne'er haunt'd you, Jeremiah." Mason's hand grasps Dixon's fore-arm. His fingers are steady, th' unfaltering grip of an Astronomer, measuring Heaven with copper and glass.

Finding himself impaired from taking his Leave, Dixon halts. Mason appears a Raven, a Spirit, broken-winged, more part of the night than of the raucous, gently glowing world beyond the smok'd panes of the Windows. Snowflakes a-twirl, a-tumble in the Darkness catch on his shoulders, on the cuff of his Coat-sleeve as he holds, hand-fast, on to Dixon's arm.

"I miss'd you, Jere -- a fair bit."

Dixon, turning to face the Eyes open in rapt Attention beneath the tousl'd hair, "Peace, Stargazer." In a stroke of Friendliness, he leans down and kisses Mason's furrowed brow. "Peace of a Dreamer's God, if thah's all there be."

The response catches him by utter Surprize. There is the Peal of Glass on the planks of the porch, on deaf ears, and Mason's cold-dusted hands come up to clasp his face. It hardly is a kiss of Desire, but 'tis, if anything, the breaching of a boundary, an Inquiry without the Words Mason so often seems to mix. Dixon closes his eyes and breathes in the warmth of his friend, hands spread over the thin shoulders that bend and tense t'wards him.

The Tang of white corn Whiskey burns in his mouth all the slow Way inside.

They speak not of this in the Morning. But Dixon wakes with his coat wrapp'd about him, his side warm. When, in the Common-room, Mason offers to light Dixon's pipe after breakfast, the bony fingers suppos'd to shelter the small flame take to wand'ring the Omen-lines of his palm instead -- leaving the seed of fire to flicker, waxing, waning, flaring, betwixt them.


End file.
